


Corporality of Water Lilies

by Scriptserpent



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Gaby is HBIC, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Napoleon Whump, New York City, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Illya, Protectiveness, Recovery, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-25 16:45:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10768332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scriptserpent/pseuds/Scriptserpent
Summary: When the CIA asks UNCLE to investigate a group of terrorists using stolen paintings as untraceable funding, Napoleon finds himself in New York City and hunting down ghosts from his past.Or, in which Napoleon Solo steals a Monet on behalf of the CIA





	1. Eidolon

Cars rumbled by below and the sweet smell of flowering cherry drifted into the stairwell window as Napoleon trudged up the stairs to his fourth floor apartment. He held back a yawn, shifting the weight of his suitcase in his hand and rounded the railing for the third floor. The apartment building had an elevator, but after an unfortunate time in Prague nearly four months ago, he chose to take the stairs whenever available.

London’s weather had taken a turn towards an unusually warm April. Sweat prickled along the edge of his shirt collar where it pressed too warmly against the nape of his neck and he smoothed the lapel of his jacket, mind already falling away to how long he was going to fall asleep in his bed, a long hot shower that was decidedly not the tepid water in medical, and where he was going to dine at night. He was not about to deny himself any pleasures this week. 

As he opened the door to the fourth floor, Napoleon sucked in a slight breath, stopping in the silent stairwell as his hand stayed listlessly on the cold metal handle. He could almost feel Illya’s glare hovering over his shoulder even though the Russian agent was miles away, probably collapsing into his own bed this very moment like any sensible man should. Damn. He probably should have stayed a little longer. Illya had frowned when Napoleon had been released from medical’s post mission checks so quickly, but he also hadn’t said anything to stop the American from slipping out of headquarters and falling happily into a cab. Napoleon’s arm still hurt from when it had been twisted harshly behind his back two days ago, an unfortunate kink in their plan while infiltrating a hospital in Bombay and he’d been dragged out of a ventilation shaft in a ridiculously ungentlemanly fashion. But it was nothing that wouldn't heal with a bag of ice and time. Besides, he had to leave before they really tried listening to his heart.

While he was mostly fine, sometimes his heart would pound arrhythmic and hard against his ribs. An unfortunate present from Rome. He would sometimes be left with little air in his lungs while the world would tinge gray for just a few horrifying and dizzying seconds. It passed. It always did, but Napoleon wasn’t going to chance to being sidelined and chucked back under Sanders just because his heart decided to thump the wrong way during an exam. He rolled his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the sharp twinge of overused muscle and opened the door.

Napoleon walked past five doors, stopping at the sixth on the left and rapt his knuckles against it sharply three times. A soft voice was muffled from the other side of the door and after some shuffling and the loud clack of the lock being undone, a small woman’s face popped into the open doorway, lips immediately splitting into a bright Hollywood smile.

“James! Back from Cairo already?” she said with a thick Kentucky accent. Her blonde hair was set in curlers and a cigarette hung between two fingers, nails painted a bombshell red. “C’mon in.” She stalked into her apartment, stopping at an ashtray on her way in and Napoleon walked in, shutting the door behind him quietly. “How was it?”

“Hot,” Napoleon said glancing at a new painting on her wall. That was new. And from an up and coming artist. She had good taste. He turned back to the woman, Janice, his next door neighbor and resident mail collector when he was on trips. He always brought her something back, usually not from the place he’d actively been working in. Napoleon had only had a layover in Cairo for three hours, two of which he had spent drinking at the airport lounge. “But I’d rather be back home. Nothing like a pretty face to come back to,” he said with a wink.

“Charmer.” She took a long drag of her cigarette and chuckled as she exhaled. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the beautiful ones,” Napoleon responded and took out a small brown paper parcel from his jacket. “I thought you might like this,”

“Oh,” she said as he walked over to her where she sat perched in a canary yellow armchair, “you didn’t have to bring me anything.”

“Of course I did.” Napoleon watched her open the paper and smile at the two items parceled together. She lifted a small stone replica of the pyramids, turning it and admiring it in the warm amber afternoon light.

“I love it,” she said, brown eyes crinkling in joy and she set it down gently on the table. She then turned to the simple looking bracelet. It was strips of even metal all lined up, a brilliant gold cuff when put on. “Oh, James,” she said.

“It was nothing,” he said, stepping forward to help put the clasp on. “I haggled it from the bazaar. It’s not real, I’m sure, but I thought it would look stunning on you.” Really, it had once belonged to the secretary of their mark and it was in fact 24 karat gold. He’d lifted it off of her while annoyed during a function three days before they had tried to break into the facility. Of course, now she was quite dead. He doubted anyone was about to notice it missing.

“It’s beautiful, thank you,” Janice said and admired it similarly to how she had looked at the tchotchke. She stood up and pecked him on the cheek. “Now, your mail.”

“A hostage exchange,” he chuckled. “Would I still get it if I hadn’t brought anything back?”

“Well you did, so it’s not a problem, is it?” Janice laughed and walked over to her kitchen table, pulling a paper bag over and pulling a stack of envelopes and a magazine out. She handed it heavily over to Napoleon. The edition of Gourmet had already been thumbed through. “That letter on the top, by the way,” she said. “I think your girlfriend stopped by to give it to you.”

“Which one?” Napoleon said back lightly, but he was intensely studying the letter on top. Heavy paper. Expensive. Blue fountain pen ink scrawled in cursive. A smudge where the ink hadn't dried on the address. Apartment 408.

“Thick brown hair. Exotic green eyes. Maybe Italian?” She was trying to stuff it under your door, but I took it from her telling her you had stepped out for milk.”

“Thank you,” he said and flashed an easy smile. “Long milk run.”

Janice tapped her cigarette against the ashtray again and shrugged. “I’m not stupid to say you’re gone. Don’t want thieves hearing that. But anyway, darling. I’m sure you’re tired from your trip. Brandy?”

“No, thank you. I have a wonderfully comfy bed waiting for me.” He tucked the non postmarked letter into his jacket breast pocket. “Maybe tomorrow.” He made his way to the door. To think he had ever thought of her being a CIA plant to watch him. But no. Her husband Frank of fifteen years was from Brighton and had gone to the US to study accounting. Janice had met him at an office as a typist. It was just fate that two Americans had ended up living next to each other.

“Do you think you’ll be around that long?” Janice teased. “Maybe you should just forward all your mail to me.”

“I doubt Frank would like that.”

Janice snorted and left the cigarette in the ashtray, crushing it out. “I’m sure. Goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight, Janice.” Napoleon closed the door quietly and stepped across the hall to his own apartment. The suitcase thumped heavily as he let it go, shoulder groaning in protest from carrying the weight of it. He pulled out his key and opened the door. The apartment was plain. It was a bare bones room, only holding enough to keep him entertained until he found a suitable home. He liked this apartment, but he wasn’t sure UNCLE was about to keep their headquarters in London. When he had a better idea of what was stretched out on the horizon, he’d make some place his home. For now, this was just a boring room with his things in it. And several expensive bottles of vintage wine.

He left the case by the door as he turned the locks and tossed the mail over to the counter, pulling loose his tie as he flipped the odd letter over in his hand. He sniffed it. No perfume or anything acrid that could be dangerous. Napoleon left the letter on the table, stopping at the small bar cart to fix himself a drink before proceeding. He picked up a letter knife and opened it sharply and at a slight distance, angled away from his face. No strange powder came out and he dumped the contents on the table, taking a sip of his drink as he realized it was photographs folded up inside a piece of paper. He flipped the first one over and felt the blood in his veins go cold.

The photo was warped in color, acid blue and yellow in the corners and distorting the subject just slightly. It was of himself, nearly a year ago. His face was screwed up in pain, mouth clamped and twisted in what Napoleon remembered had been a tremendous struggle to keep himself from screaming in agony. Red blood glistened from his nose, garishly bright against the rest of the photo’s muted hues.

_Colors so vivid…you can almost_ taste _them._

Napoleon tossed the photo down as if it had tried to bite him. He realized his pant leg was wet and glanced down. In his haste he had toppled the glass, pouring scotch all over him. The glass lay shattered on the floor. He hadn’t even heard it.

His heart thudded loudly in his head, drowning out the rest of the world. Two more photos sat in his fingers. He stared at his fingers, at the minute tremble, and took a long stuttered breath before flipping the other two over. Both were distorted and oddly colored. Heat damage, his brain supplied unhelpfully. A focused shot of his bound hands, clenched in pain and digging into the wood of the chair armrests. Another shot, this time red and orange and blackened from the chest down, of his parted lips. A cry he hadn't held back.

He swallowed thickly against the bile raising in his throat. His legs jittered and Napoleon stood up fast enough that as his chair screeched back, it wobbled over. He glanced at the windows. The shades were drawn, blinds turned enough for the light to come in, but not enough for a sniper to watch him. Not enough for anyone to watch him as he crumbled. His breathing was short and Napoleon swore he could smell something burning. An oily and sooty smell that couldn’t leave his nose for weeks after the mission in Rome.

He walked over to the corner of the room, prying loose one of the floorboards and pulled out a cloth bundled package. Passports. Fraudulent papers. Cash and jewelry. He’d expected to use it in the first months when UNCLE had taken him, ready for when the CIA was going to show up anytime on his doorstep on a nondescript night. Napoleon went to his closet, quickly trading out his clothes from the mission for new suits and underclothes. He left the tactical gear in it. The rest of his equipment was waiting at HQ for a new mission to be assigned to. The money and papers were shoved into the case and snapped shut so fast he nearly trapped his own fingers. Napoleon stood over the case, staring down at the scratches of the leather and fabric before righting himself and snatching up the photos and placing them back in the envelope. It felt like they were burning in his hands.

Napoleon left. He took the stairs and ignored the painful beating of his heart against his ribs. His arm hurt. He went all the way to the basement, taking a door used only by the plumber and the maintenance crew for the building. He emerged from the building in the shadow of its loading dock and pulled on his sunglasses, slipping into the pedestrian traffic of London.

He took the train, walked for half an hour to stop at a store, took the train again, and then took a taxi, switching rides halfway before he came to nondescript hotel that he would normally never stay in. He paid cash for the room. After barricading his door, Napoleon tossed the letter onto the dresser in the corner and went to the bathroom, immediately heaving into the toilet. He stayed there until his stomach had nothing coming up and he was retching spit and air. His abdomen ached and his shoulder screamed. He walked out of the bathroom when his stomach settled and grabbed the bottle of scotch he’d purchased halfway through his mad dash about the city. He drank straight from the bottle and his stomach lurched in warning, but he didn’t throw up again.

Napoleon leaned against the wall furthest from the door and out of sight of the solitary window in the room. Soon he found himself on the floor, bottle between his knees, and the amber light of the streetlamp burning bars of light across his legs and hands.


	2. Actify

When morning arose in ochre hues through the dirty windows, Napoleon tossed the empty bottle into the wire bin in the corner and sat down on the green covers of the bed, head in hand against the steady pounding of a furious headache. The wall to his right he could hear the shuffling of someone getting ready, coughing miserable with a smoker’s lung. A woman down the hall gave a screech of laughter, covered up quickly in silence. This…was not good. He slipped his hand through his hair, unruly and lank and so utterly the opposite of his normally controlled exterior. He was glad he was alone. 

Napoleon pressed his palm harshly against his eyes, taking a long breath that made his lungs ache and unsteadily walked to the bathroom, turning on the shower and letting the water run hot. He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw and then stripped, stepping into the too hot water and letting it burn red on his skin. The heat helped with the headache a bit by making everything feel distant and cottony, but he didn’t close his eyes and relish the warmth. Every time he did he thought of that damn lightbulb and the twitching hot electricity in his limbs. 

He got out of the shower and dried off and shaved with perfunctory speed, not looking too deeply at the dark grape blue bruises of exhaustion under his eyes. When he was dressed he sat back down on the bed, fingers tapping slowly and rhythmically in thought–in the instinctual need to run.

Napoleon glanced down and frowned at his tapping, stopping it and smoothing his palm along his knee instead. He’d apparently been spending too much time with Illya. With a huff, Napoleon stopped his hands altogether this time, taking a slow breath until he was as still as stone and his only movement was the thudding of his heart. And what would Illya say if he saw him now? Probably that he was letting his emotions get the better of him, how he was a terrible spy, et cetera, et cetera. Napoleon ran his hand through his damp hair as he thought of his options. 

Well there weren't many, really. Beyond the brilliant panic the photos had brought, there was also real danger there. Someone, obviously connected to Vinciguerras, had found out where he lived and delivered the photos. And wasn’t that a shame? He wouldn’t be able to go back to his apartment. He had liked that place too. Nestled on a quiet street and only minutes from a bakery that served rich and soul soothing coffee, the apartment had been a wonderful respite from the constant whirlwind of missions. UNCLE would have to move him to another location, rented under another alias. He just didn’t imagine he was going to like the new place all that much. 

Of course, there was the fleeting and seductive thought of just running off. He had more room to move here in comparison to the CIA. It wouldn’t be hard to melt into the night. He could run to somewhere remote and warm, where the water was bluer than the sky and the sand as white as clouds. What would be hard would be staying there, and only there. At least until someone eventually found him and made sure he stayed silent by either piano wire or a bullet. But at least it would be in paradise. 

And if you had asked Napoleon what option he would take, perhaps even a year ago, you would have had to have asked him at the airport, ticket already in hand. 

Napoleon stood up and walked over to the window in the derelict room and peered through the blinds. The city was lazily waking up to what had begun a clear morning, but now was gray with the promise of rain. He could keep this all to himself, because he must have screwed up somewhere for him to be found. And he really didn’t want to admit that to his partners. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Because they had all been there in Rome, and until he knew whether this threat was only targeted at him, he had to assume Illya and Gaby would get swept up into whatever this vague threat was. They couldn’t watch their own backs if they didn’t know they were targets. 

So to UNCLE it was then. Napoleon let the blinds slip close and rubbed at his sore arm and walked back into the center of the room. It felt too small, too claustrophobic now that he had made up his mind. He fixed his shirt and straightened his tie before glancing in the mirror and smoothing his hair back, holding back a wince at the obvious exhaustion on his face. He looked about as great as his head felt. Napoleon took the envelope with the photos and tucked them into his breast pocket of his jacket and they jutted uncomfortably against his chest. Case in hand, he left the room and the empty bottle behind. 

Napoleon stopped at the front desk, turning in the key to a tall white haired man who was chewing on the end of an unlit pipe and didn’t so much as glance at him. “Pardon me,” Napoleon said, and smiled when the man looked up and frowned, “but was there a message left by a Nelly Moss?”

“Moss?” The man took out the pipe clenched between his teeth and squinted at a piece of paper in the corner of the desk. “Called about 3 am,” the desk attendant said as he handed over a piece of paper. 

“Thank you,” Napoleon said with a bright smile and left with the note. He stopped on the steps of the hotel, the April sunshine warm despite the gray tinge. He swept over the note and checked his watch. Ah, at least he was going to be early. Napoleon hailed a cab, slipped in, and gave the address nearby UNCLE headquarters. As the streets of London sped by, Napoleon paused to wonder just what had come up that would require such a sudden meeting. They had just come back from a mission, and normally they would at least have a few days before being called in and sent god knew where in the world. Gaby had tracked him down somehow if she had left the message, and Napoleon glanced at his shoes, lips tipped down in a slowly forming frown. He had forgotten he had left the tacker in the bottom of the pair of Crockett & Jones he had on. That had been a deliberate choice during them mission, but he had intended to get rid of it as soon as he had gotten back to the apartment. Gaby must have called Illya when he hadn’t answered his apartment phone, and now the two of them knew he hadn’t been there last night.

Wonderful. Napoleon stopped the cab a few blocks early, paid, and exited to take a circuitous walk to the office. Obviously he was going to tell them what had happened, but he hadn’t planned on having to tell them first thing (because he knew them and they were going to needle out just why he hadn't gone to his apartment for the night) and there wasn’t a great way of saying ‘ah yes, remember when I was being zapped to death by dear uncle Rudi, well I have some news for you’, at least not first thing in the morning. And of course, he was going to leave out that moment of panic. No need for them to know he had been so weak to have fallen so quickly. 

He walked for about twenty minutes, and took a loop through an alley to make sure he wasn’t being followed and finally walked into UNCLE. He left his suitcase with the reception desk, the real one past the security zone and the mock entrance, before he made his way up towards Waverly’s office. He was nearly an hour early and had been planning on flirting with one of the admins in the office to pass the time. So it shouldn’t have surprised him that with all of his current plans being derailed that it would continue, because in the corner reading was Gaby, wearing sleek fire red pants and a white silk blouse, sunglasses perched on her head as she flipped through a magazine next to Illya who looked dour in his dark grey clothes in comparison to Gaby’s bold colors. He looked up as Napoleon approached and Gaby continued to skim her magazine. “Glad you could make it,” she said. 

“You really should think of another name other than Nelly,” Napoleon responded as he stopped in front of them, hands in his pockets. The picture of careless ease. He could feel Illya’s gaze on him and he ignored it. “A rather dull name.”

“I didn’t come up with it,” she responded and glanced up, frowning as she took stock of him. “Did you sleep at all? You look horrible, Solo.”

“I never look horrible,” he countered and gestured to his clothes with a quick flash of his hand. 

Gaby gave a thin smile, “Of course not.” She stood and pat his face, “You are far to pretty to look horrible. My mistake.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“I still think you look horrible,” Illya said. Napoleon glanced at him in surprise. His arms were folded and he looked unhappy, almost disappointed? That was something to mull over later.

“Well,” Napoleon said with a grin, “there was this brunette–”

“Never mind,” Gaby said because Waverly’s door had opened and he peered out at the three of them. 

“Right, come on in then. I do apologize for calling you back so soon, but that’s the way things are sometimes. Please come in and take a seat.”

They filed in and took their seats, Napoleon glancing only once to the brandy nearby. Even he knew 8 am was too early, hangover or not. He turned his attention to the folders on the desk. So it was another mission then. Napoleon relaxed a bit, folding his legs as he leaned back into the chair while Waverly closed the door and took his seat at his desk. “I’m afraid we’ve been asked to help in a sensitive matter. While I’d normally give you all a week rest,” Waverly paused and pushed the folders forward, “this is a favor at the moment and I would like it to stay that way rather than becoming a formal request.”

“A request by whom?” Gaby asked as she took the folders and disseminated them to her partners on either side. Napoleon flipped open the dossier, scanning the contents quickly. 

“The CIA.”

It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.Napoleon blinked, felt his fingers dig harshly into his kneecaps. He gave no other sign of his distress. “Did Sanders–”

“As I said,” Waverly cut off his question, “this is a favor at the moment. They requested you personally, because of your expertise in this situation.”

“Why is it a favor?” Illya asked and Napoleon looked down back at the paperwork, rushing through the information and pulling out the photos attached. “If it is the CIA they can formally request Solo.”

“Because this isn’t actually a CIA case,” Napoleon said still staring at the photo. The face was grainy, taken at a distance, and black and white. But he knew it. Napoleon glanced up at Waverly for confirmation. 

“Mr. Solo is correct,” Waverly said, turning his gaze away from Napoleon and glancing over at Illya and Gaby. “This is not a CIA matter, but it resulted in one of their men dead, and this happens to be a subject of expertise for Solo.” Waverly sat forward, hands clasped together. “At the moment this is a favor, as I said, but it could escalate into a formal request and temporary withdrawal, which is something I believe we would all like to avoid.”

Napoleon glanced back down to the dossier and ignored the cold feeling in his stomach. He had no doubt that if Sanders heard that they had refused the ‘favor’, the paperwork would have been placed immediately to pull Napoleon for a solo mission to displace him from UNCLE. Despite his contract with UNCLE, he knew Sanders would find a way to remind them that Napoleon was still technically with the CIA. He shook his head to dispel the thought. “Why was the CIA involved with art theft?”

“There is some nebulous evidence that shows that there may be ties with a foreign entity that is using the stollen artwork as funding.”

“Untraceable funding,” Napoleon added. 

“Why is that untraceable? The selling of the painting would still have a trail,” Gaby asked. 

“You trade the painting for something of equal value first,” Napoleon shook his head, “it doesn’t have to be art either. It could be weapons, land, anything. Then you can keep trading it that way or eventually liquidize it. It’ll stay on the black market for years because it’s too hot, and even if it does emerge,” he shrugged, “the person you finally find will probably have no idea who the original seller was, or if they do, they’re not stupid enough to talk.”

“This sends us to New York,” Illya said when Napoleon fell silent and began flicking through the photos again.

“Yes,” Waverly agreed. “You’ll be flying out tomorrow morning. Your covers are listed in here as well.” He glanced down to a sheet of paper in front of him. “Kuryakin and Teller will be appearing as husband and wife, an investor and socialite respectively. There’s an apartment that has been rented for you already.” Waverly turned to Solo, “We’ll need you to try and join the team the FBI signaled as being the most likely group stealing these paintings. You’ll need to confirm that information is correct and find out who the buyer is.”

“If this has Walt Keller’s hand in this, we need to be careful,” Napoleon said, tapping the grainy photo pointedly. “He’s ruthless, and that’s probably how that agent got killed. He doesn’t trust anyone and takes care of any loose ends; real or imaginary.”

“You know him?” Illya asked. His gaze was thoughtful and sharp, and Napoleon nodded.

“Once, a long time ago, I saw him at a distance. I know of him more than anything. We were at the same place by accident.” Napoleon shrugged when Illya frowned. “I got away with a painting. He left with one too.”

“Would he recognize you?” Waverly asked. 

“No,” Napoleon said. That he was sure of. Because he had taken the painting he had no doubt Keller had wanted. And if he had known his face, Napoleon was sure he never would have been caught, because he would have been dead at the bottom of a river somewhere. 

“We have a CIA liaison?” Gaby asked as she read through the rest of the information. 

“Agent Thomas Foley. He’ll be there to provide more information and help with the mission.”

“I know Foley,” Napoleon said, “he’s not half bad.” He didn’t get along with the usual crew of agents Sanders had, for whatever reason. Perhaps it was their bland personalities and bad suits, or it was the fact they all saw him as an unrepentant criminal who wasn’t on his knees in gratefulness for being given the opportunity to work with the CIA. But Foley had at least treated him like something of a human being, although definitely not an equal. And Napoleon didn’t hold grudge to that. He didn’t want to be there either. 

“I expect you’ll get in contact with him tomorrow, Ms. Teller, they want to pick you up at the airport to brief you.”

“At the same time?” Illya asked. When Waverly nodded he frowned. “We are not supposed to be together.”

“No, but that’s the Americans for you,” said Waverly as Illya scowled further. 

“Sir,” Napoleon said, “this says I’ll be staying in lower Manhattan, that’s not exactly the right place to be watching their movements.”

“It’s what we could get quickly,” Waverly admitted, “but it should work. One of the members was identified as living there. It wont be up to your usual standards, but it should be much better than that time in Algiers.”

Anything would be better than that time in Algiers. “No, what I mean is most of these people live and meet in Brooklyn. They’re not meeting in Manhattan unless it’s to look at the target. I have a place I can stay at that’ll be closer.”

Waverly frowned and leaned back in his chair, “It can’t be a very opulent place,” Waverly said, referring to Solo’s tastes. 

Napoleon shook his head and folded his arms, ignoring how the photo corners pressed sharply. “My mother had an apartment in Greenwood. I still own it.”

Waverly considered him for a moment and then nodded, “I’ll defer to your knowledge then, Solo. If you think that’s the better option.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Waverly waved his hand. “Please take the packets with you, but destroy them before you see Margret,” he said, mentioning the receptionist. The three knew it was a dismissal and stood. “Take care of yourselves and come back soon. There’s something in France I would much rather have you on.”

Napoleon stood back while Gaby walked out, the folder tucked neatly under her arm and she glanced back when he didn’t move. “I need to speak with you sir, if you have a moment," Napoleon said with a bright smile. He watched Illya pause at the doorway along with Gaby.

“Of course, Mr. Solo.”

He waited until the door closed, not wanting to meet his partners’ eyes and then took the envelope out of his pocket when the room was empty save him and Waverly. 

“I was left this last night,” he said and slid them across the desk to Waverly and wondered again if this was the right choice. 


End file.
